


The Golden Stag

by Kerjack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-01 09:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerjack/pseuds/Kerjack
Summary: His siblings looked nothing like his father, what with their golden hair and emerald eyes. Why, looking at Myrcella was like looking at a mirror of his mother. Not that Damon had any right to talk. When HE looked in a mirror, he saw his uncle Jaime.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been rolling on the dot net for a while now, and I'm finally getting around to posting it over here. I'll try to update a chapter or two a day on this side until we're caught up, and then updates will be very, very sporadic.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy and leave thoughts, likes and constructive criticism!

They were dressed in furs and leathers, and there were five of them.

Well, there were _more_ than five, plenty more, but only that handful truly mattered. The eldest was red of hair and broadening through the shoulder, the youngest barely six namedays old, but they all looked the same. Not in coloring per se—the younger girl looked nothing like the older—but in their wolfish look, from lordly Robb and prim and proper Sansa to the skinny Brandon and the child that was Rickon. _Wolfish. I suppose that's a fitting description, considering._

He liked them. All of them, even Arya, who had made no secret of her disdain for being escorted to the feast by him.

"There are certainly a lot of these Starks." It was Tyrek speaking, his face red and lips loose after his second glass of wine. Short but as attractive as most Lannisters seemed to be, Tyrek was a married man at four and ten, though his wife was all of one year old. It had taken months for the nephew of the Lord of the Westerlands to stop insisting everyone refer to him as 'Lord Lannister', what with his infant of a bride being the Lady of Hayford.

The owner of the next voice, another Lannister and squire to the king named Lancel, was even deeper in his cups. "I'd say so. Have you seen Sansa? If Lady Stark looked like that fifteen years ago…"

The table of squires laughed around him, and he did his best to join in even though he knew the turn the conversation might take. Sure enough, when Lorent Falwell—squire to Ser Borros of the Kingsguard—emptied his flagon in a long gulp, Damon knew what was coming nearly before the words left his lips. "Hell, even the way she looks now…I'm willing for a tumble if she is, old or not."

The laughter of the table of southron squires was cut short by one quiet but firm voice. "Enough. We are a guest in Lord Stark's home; as such, we will not speak inappropriately of either his daughter or wife."

The silence that followed—although it wasn't really silence, for the feast around them ground on oblivious—was horribly awkward in the moments before each of the half-grown boys murmured their apologies. The owner of the voice accepted them with a curt nod and a smile that even a simpleton like Lancel would know didn't reach his eyes before standing. The lads did the same, many of them wobbling. "I fear I must attend my family. All of you continue to enjoy the feast."

_The Seven know you'll enjoy it more without my company._ The tall, lean man—who was as much a boy as those at the table he'd just turned from, and also a man long their elder at the same time—began the ponderous journey towards the royal table, holding his disappointment in check. _I knew it was a long shot in any case. Perhaps I should learn to keep my tongue in check._

_Or just stop trying. That has better odds of working in my favor I'd wager._

It was difficult, being a Prince. One might think it was an absurd statement that, what with the wealth and the prestige and the hanger-on's that came with such a position. Many over the years had died trying to obtain that title for themselves and their sons, and many more would die trying to do it in the future. Damon on the other hand had been born to it, the son of a king and second-in-line to the most prestigious kingdom in the known world.

And he hated it, and all it entailed.

Prince Damon Baratheon tried to keep his inner ponderings to himself as he navigated Winterfell's hall, stepping around drunken men-at-arms and over discarded flagons of ale as he made for the lord's table. Even with his mind preoccupied with rehashing the conversation he had just come from—he'd only spoken three lines in half an hour, and they'd been enough to make him unwelcome at the table—he felt the eyes upon him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the table of noble girls—Northerners all, as few women had travelled north with the King's court—eyeing him and giggling among themselves, oblivious to the fact that he was fully aware of what they were doing.

He was used to that. Tall and lean, neither broad nor frail through the shoulders, he was a fair man, accentuated by the black tunic with the golden stag stitched across his chest and his black breeches. He wished, for the millionth time in his life, that he had the black hair and blue eyes to go with it, but as always that wish wasn't answered.

Not that the alternative was bad; no, many would say it was better. Damon Baratheon looked, like all his siblings, like a Lannister, with curly golden hair and bright emerald eyes. His clean-shaven face had a sharp jawline and high cheekbones like his mother, and the slightest of dimples when he smiled. Even so, when he looked at his mother—she sat stoic and regal at the table he was walking towards, ever the lioness in a dress of crimson and gold—he could see much of what he saw when he looked into the mirror.

And when he looked at his Uncle Jaime, who stood resplendent in his Kingsguard armor just behind her, he saw himself exactly.

_And when I look to my father I see nothing of myself, no matter how desperately I wish to._ Damon glanced back over his shoulder even as he continued forward, eyes following the direction of the booming laugh he knew quite well. The King satamidst the revelry, a serving girl in his lap, drunk and boisterous and looking nothing like a king save for the crown atop his head.

_Yet he is the man I wish to be. I should probably question that more than I do._

When he faced back forwards he was nearly at the high table, and his mother was watching him. Cersei Lannister was a beautiful woman, with all the looks Damon had just been attributing to himself, and she remained that way even when she wasn't smiling. Which she wasn't, not with the King doing what he was doing, but then again his father never gave his mother any reason to smile.

Her eyes were warm even if her expression was as cold as ice. She said nothing, pointedly not looking at the Baratheon colors he wore—she wanted him to wear Lannister colors like his brothers and his sister, but Damon insisted he wear the colors of his house—but she raised an eyebrow, anticipating in that motherly way she had that he was about to speak.

First Damon gave a smile and nod of acknowledgement to Lady Stark, ever mindful of his courtesies. "Lady Stark, your hospitality has been beyond gracious."

The wife of Lord Eddard smiled, and Damon noted that she was indeed still an attractive woman, just as Lorent had said. _Even so, he should have the decency to not say it so openly, and never in her husband's hall._ "Thank you, Prince Damon. I hope you are enjoying yourself."

_Not at all._ "I am indeed, my lady." He looked back to his mother, who had remained expressionless throughout her second son's interaction with the hosting lord's wife. "Even so, I believe it is time for Myrcella and Tommen to retire, and I myself am exhausted from the road. I believe I will settle them myself, if you both will excuse me."

Lady Stark graciously did so, and his mother merely nodded. She held his gaze a moment, silently asking how his attempt to integrate with the boys his own age had gone. Damon held it, letting her know in no uncertain terms that it had gone like all the previous attempts had gone.

Her eyes became furious, but she smiled to hold up pretenses in front of Catelyn Tully. "Of course dear. Find Ser Borros to escort you."

Damon placed a hand on his mother's shoulder and squeezed lightly. _It's not their fault your son isn't comfortable around them, mother. The accountability is mine, not theirs._ "Uncle Jaime is closer." Damon turned with one last smile before looking to his sister, who was staring into the crowd oblivious to her brother and mother's conversation despite being seated directly next to them.

_Or staring at Robb Stark, rather._ Damon smiled at that, even as he gently shook her shoulder. Myrcella was a pretty girl at two and ten, and was bound to grow into a beautiful woman in the not-so-distant future. She'd blushed like…well, like the girl she _was_ when the heir to Winterfell had escorted her into the feasting hall, and blushed even heavier when she looked up now into her older brother's knowing eyes. Damon silently approved—Stark seemed a decent lad, and what with the friendship between their fathers just such a betrothal could easily take place, though it would be a few years yet.

He grinned at his sister. "Come, 'Cella. We've had enough feasting for one night."

The Princess opened her mouth to protest, but glanced at her mother before deflating. Damon knew the look the Queen was giving her only daughter without even turning to see it; it promised retribution if there was even a touch of protest. Damon had seen it many times growing up. "Of course, Damon."

As he pulled the chair out for her, his sister gaining her feet, Damon couldn't help but lean in closely to her ear. "I'm sure lord Robb will miss your stare as much as you'll miss staring."

Damon chuckled as his sister elbowed him as subtly and as hard as she could, now as crimson as her dress. He nudged her to show her he was joking even as he clasped his youngest sibling, the nine year old Tommen, on the shoulder. "You too, Tommen."

His plump younger brother didn't protest, sleep already prevalent in his eyes. Their uncle Jaime, having overheard Damon talking to the Queen, had summoned Myrcella's handmaidens and was awaiting them already, grinning charmingly at his nieces and nephews. The golden haired troupe made as quite of an exit as they could manage, and Damon breathed lighter once they were in the relative quiet of the inner corridor of Winterfell.

Tommen reached for his hand, and Damon obliged him. He knew it was unprincely of them both, but Tommen was a sweet child and still young; besides, Myrcella was on Damon's other arm, so he couldn't very well show favoritism between the two. "Did you enjoy yourself, little brother?"

The youngest Baratheon nodded sleepily. "It was fun. But the Stark wolves are…scary."

Myrcella chimed in from Damon's other side. "I thought they were majestic."

"All of them, or only lord Robb's?" This elbow was much less subtle and much harder, but Damon laughed all the louder after taking it. He agreed with both of his siblings; the Stark direwolves were majestic to be certain, even half-grown as they were, but Damon imagined they would grow into utterly frightful beasts all the same.

Their uncle, walking behind them, had chuckled with Damon and Tommen at Myrcella's expense. "The Princess is found of the young Stark. I noticed as well."

"I imagine the entire _feast_ noticed." Damon laughed again, thankful Myrcella was taking her ribbing beautifully. _If only everyone was named Baratheon or Lannister; I'd be the most popular Prince in Westerosi history._

As long as those Baratheons and Lannisters weren't his twin of course. He interacted with the brother who had been born five minutes before him about as well as he had the table of squires earlier.

Damon had given up trying to determine why he clammed up when it came to those situations. Not around his brother of course, because _everyone_ clammed up around Joffrey, but the others. Damon was good in formal situations; he could write a book on etiquette, assuming the bumbling Pycelle would shut up long enough to give him the peace to do so. It was the _informal_ that got him, a mystery he had yet to be able to solve, that manner of inspiring other men he saw his uncle Jaime and father Robert and other uncle Renly do so well. That escaped Damon Baratheon as little else did.

_It's good I'm not the next king. I'd be 'Damon the Simpleton' or 'Damon the Dumb' I'm sure._

Tommen was asleep nearly as soon as he was in his room, Damon removing the Prince's boots and burying him under the mountains of furs. He gave a single nod to Ser Mandon Moore, who was stationed between the doors to Tommen's and Myrcella's chambers, before venturing a few more doors down the way to his own chamber, next to which was his brother's.

"I saw it didn't go well." His uncle said it quietly from his own station between those two doors, but with a sympathetic grimace that made it all the worse.

Damon didn't bother trying to play dumb. His uncle Jaime was perhaps the man he was closest to in the world, and had been since Damon and Joffrey had come screaming into the world fifteen years earlier. He was the _only_ man Damon was close to, save for little Tommen; Damon wasn't good at making friends. "It never does."

His uncle placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "They don't have to like you. You could outduel them all with your left hand while pleasing a woman with your right."

Damon snorted. "I _have_ , save for that last bit. I think that's _why_ they don't like me."

Jaime shrugged. "They'll get over it. You're a Prince, they're nothing." His uncle's face, an older version of his own, lit up in a smirk. "Besides, you're better with more than one sword than they are." He tilted his head towards Damon's closed chamber door. "Tyrion sent you a gift."

Damon smiled a bit at that. "Any idea where he is, by the way? I noticed he disappeared sometime in the early hours of the feast."

"No idea, but I wouldn't worry about that. You've got something more important to tend to." Jaime held up a hand to cut Damon off. "No worries; not a word to your mother."

The golden haired, black-clad prince slipped through the door and shut it firmly behind him. A young woman, red-haired and shapely and as naked as her nameday, lounged atop the bed within. Damon had no idea how Tyrion had smuggled her within Winterfell's walls, but as Jaime had said, the prince had more pressing concerns to worry about.

Damon let his eyes trail up and down her, the whore smiling at him in her practiced way. "Hello my prince." Damon didn't bother saying anything in return; instead he held her eyes as he reached for his belt. That made her smile all the deeper. "What is it I can do for you?"

"You can stop talking," the prince said as he stepped deeper into the room.

He had lied earlier. Damon didn't hate _everything_ about being a Prince.

And he had at least _one_ thing in common with his father.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a blunted sword hitting a durable shield, but it still hurt to high hells when its wielder swung hard.

Damon Baratheon swung hard.

"Yield, yield!" Shouted the Westerman squire, a lad named Falwell who would have been horribly outmatched even if he wasn't visibly hungover. His shield arm hung limp for a moment, struck numb by his blonde haired opponent. Tyrek Lannister winced in sympathy, having felt the same pain many times over the last few years. The Prince straightened up instantly, the blunted steel in his hands angled downwards. His voice was clear in the morning air of Winterfell's courtyard.

"I was aiming for that shield, Lorent. I could have rung your head like a bell, because the shield wasn't going to stop me." It wasn't said arrogantly, at least not in Tyrek's opinion, but it showed no mercy either.

Falwell's face twisted and turned red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, though he kept his voice calmer than could have been rightfully expected. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'll keep that in mind during our next bout."

Tyrek watched Damon watching Lorent as he joined the ring of Lannister guardsmen and squires in the courtyard, noticing the subtle look of confusion on his royal cousin's face. He had just been trying to give advice, though it tended to sound like gloating from the Prince's mouth. Tyrek understood—well, _tried_ to understand, although it was difficult to do so when you were defeated in the sparring circle every time you faced the Prince. Damon Baratheon was simply saying what he saw, not to rub in his victory to try and help the others improve. There was no malice.

At least Tyrek didn't _think_ there was malice. Something about the Prince's manner made one confused as to whether he liked you, hated you or thought you were dirt beneath his knee-high boots.

Tyrek had tried hard in the last few years of his life, ever since being sent to King's Landing to squire for King Robert Baratheon himself, to look at Damon Baratheon's position objectively. It could be difficult, what with his ability to beat the hell out of you and then tell you what you'd done wrong, but he thought he was closer to nailing it down.

Tyrek stepped into the ring, wordlessly taking the blunted sword and shield from Lorent and already preparing himself for the pain of a beating. Tyrek was decent with a sword and shield and strove to improve constantly—although squiring for a man who didn't care to learn his name much less train him proved difficult to overcome—but he wasn't on par with the prince. Damon spent more time in the training yard than he did anywhere else and it showed, as did the effects of squiring for the Kingslayer.

_Let's just hope the Prince doesn't decide to be 'the Kinslayer_ ', _or Ermesande will be the youngest widow in Westerosi history._

Damon nodded to Tyrek in acknowledgement before crouching down in a fighting pose, sword and shield at the ready. They exchanged a few testing strikes, Tyrek focusing on keeping his guard while Damon stalked around him. His cousin had six inches on him, but Tyrek was broader through the shoulder. Broader didn't mean stronger, as he had learned years ago, but it was still his best shot.

Until Damon spun out of the bull charge Tyrek tried after blocking the Prince's blow, and the cousin of the Queen suddenly felt a shield colliding with his back. Even as Tyrek landed face down in Winterfell's frozen courtyard, he knew the Prince could have easily slammed that shield against the back of his head.

Tyrek didn't let the laughs of the surrounding squires and men faze him as he climbed to his feet, for most of them were sympathetic in nature. Damon stood near him, emerald eyes glancing over him to make sure he was whole. "You've tried that move more time than I can count, Tyrek."

Tyrek son of Tygett nodded. "It almost worked…once." He cleared his throat, aiming a smile at the prince. "That was an excellent move, Your Grace."

_Ah, there it is._ As Damon always did when given a compliment that wasn't rigid with formality, his face turned a few shades darker and his eyes took on a slight panicked look, as if he didn't really know what to say. _It's because he doesn't._ "Er…thank you." He turned away to the ring of men and boys around them, anxious for his next opponent. "Garris."

Tyrek switched places with the Crakehall, pondering as always at Damon's actions. He'd tried, per his cousin the Queen's orders, to befriend Damon since he'd arrived in King's Landing two years past. It hadn't worked no matter what he tried, though there were odd times when he thought the Prince was trying to thank him for the efforts. Many of the other squires and pages in King's Landing—and even most of the men—thought the Prince arrogant and unapproachable, and at first Tyrek had agreed, but the longer he spent in the Capitol the more unconvinced he became. It seemed liked Damon tried, but he simply couldn't; if there wasn't a diplomatic, formal way of responding, he had no bloody clue what to say.

_That or he really_ is _an arrogant, self-centered prick. I may be just trying to find good things because we look alike._

Tyrek's inner musings were interrupted by the sound of Garris slamming to the ground, dropped by a vicious backhand blow to the knee. Three more competitors went up and fell down before Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, invited the group of southerners to mingle with the northerners who had been training in a separate part of the yard. Damon fought Robb Stark, winning after a spirited bout, accepting the wolf heir's congratulations with a nervous smile and nod.

It was going splendidly, even a heavily swaddled Tommen getting in on the training and losing to young Brandon Stark despite Damon's encouragement, when Joffrey did what Joffrey did best.

Damon's twin was as tall as he was and just as lean with the same coloring, but they differed in the face. Damon had Queen Cersei's cheekbones and lean face, while Joffrey was a bit broader and softer, his cheekbones not nearly as defined. A pack of men— _men,_ not the squires like Tyrek around Damon—hung with him, chief among them the scarred, vicious looking Sandor Clegane. The Hound scared the seven hells out of Tyrek, and he felt no shame in admitting it.

Joffrey spoke, hand on the expensive sword at his side and infuriating smirk on his Lannister face as he strode forward. "I would like a bout, Ser Rodrik."

The bearded northerner nodded. "Of course. Robb."

The Stark heir nodded, stepping into the sparring ring with a blunted sword in hand. Joffrey, however, raised an eyebrow. "Blunted swords are child's play, don't you think? I was thinking along the lines of live steel."

Tyrek felt a bit of apprehension in the pit of his stomach, eyes going between the two noble lads and the grizzled master-at-arms. Ser Rodrik's voice was firm. "I will not allow that, Your Grace."

Joffrey's smirk faded. "Allow, Ser Rodrik?"

Damon chimed in then, somewhat to Tyrek's surprise. "It is Ser Rodrik's right as Winterfell's master-at-arms to set the terms, brother." The Prince's tone was respectful and proper, but Tyrek knew Damon felt neither of those things for Joffrey. Or at least he supposed; Damon was always careful of courtesy and correctness, but only an utter fool could feel fondness for the real Joffrey.

Joffrey nearly glared at his brother, though he kept the smirk on his face. _Besides, Joffrey never truly_ glares _at Damon._ The Heir had lost as much to the Spare in the sparring ring as the rest of them until he simply refused to spar Damon further. "Even so, I believe you would have right to overrule him, Stark. What say you?"

The wish to do just that was evident on Robb Stark's face, but he shook his head slowly. "Ser Rodrik is in the right."

Joffrey's smirk deepened. "Is that fear I see, wolf?"

The heir to Winterfell's face turned as red as his Tully hair. "Live steel it is, then."

Ser Rodrik wasn't in agreement. "It is still my sparring yard, Lord Robb. The answer is no."

Joffrey feigned a yawn. "I suppose I shall let you remain behind your master-at-arms' protection." Robb snarled in anger, all self-control gone, but Joffrey spoke over him. "But Princes will no longer stoop to such levels. Come Tommen, Damon."

Without a word the Crown Prince turned and strode away, his pack of dogs and many of the squires who had been with Damon following after him. Tommen looked to Prince Damon, who had hesitated. Tyrek watched as the Prince looked between the fuming northerners and his brother, conflict clear on his face.

And then Tyrek started walking as Damon, with a hand on Tommen's shoulders, turned to follow Joffrey.


	3. Chapter 3

He parried high and then struck low, only to have his opponent dance out of the way, gliding away from his blunted blade easily. "Too slow. Strike with _force._ "

The Golden Prince gritted his teeth, molars grinding together. He swung again, putting all of his strength into the overhead blow as if it were an axe he used instead of a sword. Again his opponent moved out of the way, spinning from the strike and bringing a backhand blow towards the Prince's side.

His _right_ side, which was left wide open by the blow and unprotected by the shield strapped to Damon's left arm. The second son of Robert cursed under his breath nearly before the blade came to a calculated stop against his ribs.

His uncle, immaculate looking despite having fought in the white Kingsguard armor for nearly an hour, smirked as he held the blade against his nephew's side. "Dead. That was _too much_ force; you need to thrust hard and fast, but with touch. You don't have to split them in two to get the job done. By the noises I hear from your chambers I'd have thought you'd have learned that by now."

Damon grunted in mild amusement at his uncle's joke, both men resetting across from each other in fighting poses without a signal between them. It was hot in the inner courtyard of the Red Keep, and felt even hotter after Damon had spent so much time recently in the bitter cold of the north. He was soaked in his own sweat despite being shirtless, his golden hair clinging to his neck and shoulders. It all made the Kingslayer's unruffled appearance all the more infuriating.

The courtyard was empty save for the two of them; Damon preferred to train with his uncle in private, for he would never speak as he was about to if there were other ears present. "What do you think happened to the Stark boy?" His question was accentuated with a quick lunging strike.

Jaime deflected it with shield and struck low with his sword, Damon countering the blow. They exchanged blows a second later before simultaneously dancing away from each other, beginning to circle with their defenses raised as they had countless times before. The Kingsguard's face was blank, eyes roving his nephew/squire's stance for weaknesses. "I think he fell from a tower. Poor lad; a fall like that should have killed him, not left him a broken shell."

He struck as he finished talking, trying to catch Damon off guard. It didn't work, Damon parrying and returning the strike, nearly landing a blow on his uncle's shoulder before the Lannister twisted his body out of the way, smashing his shield against the Baratheon's and pushing them both back a few steps to recover his stance.

They circled again, two sets of emerald eyes trying to find weaknesses they might have missed in hundreds of previous bouts. "The Starks seemed shocked he had fallen, though. From what I gathered form their talk, he had never fallen before."

Jaime saw his attack coming, stepping unexpectedly away from the sudden charge and stabbing the blade forward towards Damon's side. It was his right side again but this time Damon was ready, twisting to deflect the sword with his own as he twisted his hips mid-step, buying enough time to turn his body around on the run and gather himself to repel his uncle's following blows.

The Kingsguard raised an eyebrow as they resumed circling. "Of _course_ he hadn't fallen before; if he had, the boy wouldn't have been around to fall while we were there." Jaime gestured towards Damon's hips with his swords. "You won't be able to pull that move off in armor. Or when you're over forty, armor or not."

Damon smirked, face suddenly his uncle's when Jaime was fifteen years younger. "I thought you would appreciate it."

"Alayaya teach you that?"

The smirk deepened. "Chataya herself." They came together in a flurry of blows, matching one another's moves perfectly before separating a few moments later.

Damon loved these times; when it was just him and his uncle, he was able to speak his mind and ask the questions he had been holding onto for days on end. Whatever the reasons that Damon couldn't figure out, he always felt… _panicked_ around others, unsure of what to say or if they were serious or joking, among other horrible variables that weren't logical from one person to another. He liked etiquette and formality, for in those situations there were accepted, polished expectations and pleasantries that could be exchanged. There were _rules,_ and people followed those rules because if they didn't they would give insult. They were predictable, and Damon loved predictability.

But outside of formal engagements and expected pleasantries, people were complex. Damon never knew what they really meant or what he was supposed to say, and even when he did his tongue became so thick in his mouth and his mind screamed so many uncertainties at him that he could barely get a sentence out. By the end of those interactions, Damon was certain his counterparts were as ready to hang him as he was ready to hang himself.

Not so with Uncle Jaime. Around his mother's brother, Damon wasn't tongue-tied or uncertain—he was Damon. It came easily and naturally and the banter was horribly fun, just as it was with Myrcella and Tommen and, to lesser extents, his mother.

Jaime beat him this time with a disarming move he'd never shown Damon before, and he beat the Prince with it again three more times before the Baratheon Prince figured out how to counter it. Damon grinned widely after doing so, backing away with his shield and blunted sword ready, looking as if he had been swimming in Blackwater Bay.

His uncle nodded approvingly, still as composed-looking as ever. "It took you long enough to figure it out. You've died five times this session. Perhaps you're spending too _much_ time at Chataya's." He struck again, as fast now as he had been when they started, and Damon knocked it away. "I'd try to keep you from there, but I imagine there is too much Tyrion in you to make that possible."

Damon laughed, even though he didn't really like the comparison. The Prince could tell that his mother's other brother did his best to make Damon comfortable, but Tyrion was sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, and while Damon wanted to laugh at his jokes and have a merry time with the dwarf he simply wasn't comfortable enough to.

_It makes no sense, even I must admit that. Uncle Tyrion and I share a love of whores and unchaste kitchen maids, while Uncle Jaime never seems to partake._ On the surface one would think the second son of Tywin would be closer to Damon, but they differed even in their similarities. Damon was discreet about his amoral activities, and had the decency to keep them hidden from anyone not named Baratheon or Lannister—even _some_ named Baratheon or Lannister. Tyrion flaunted them to the world, along with his fondness for excessive amounts of wine. It wasn't proper or noble of him, and Damon had difficulties turning a blind eye to it.

But he didn't let himself dip into an inner pondering of his family or his sins or his shortcomings. Instead he focused on what he _did_ do well, and lasted so long in the bout that the Kingsguard called an end to it himself. Damon was pleased to finally see a drop of sweat on his uncle's brow as they both took a seat on the edge of the private courtyard.

Damon was halfway through oiling the training sword—it was meant to be battered, but Jaime insisted his squire care for every piece of weaponry he ever touched—when he blurted out something that had been gnawing at him for days. "Do you think Joff lied?"

His uncle, seated across from him and oiling his own training blade—Jaime was nothing if not fair with his squire—raised an eyebrow. "I think your brother makes a habit of lying."

The second son nodded his head in acknowledgement, but returned to his point. "I mean about Lady Arya and her wolf."

Damon had been with Jaime searching for Lady Arya on a different part of the Trident when she had been found, and had missed the hastily assembled court and trial that ended with the death of Lady Sansa's wolf by Lord Eddard's hand. He was thankful for that last bit, as he found the Lady Sansa as courteous and proper as he was and therefore easier than others to interact with; he'd have hated to see her distraught after the condemnation and death of her wolf in place of her sister's.

Jaime shrugged. "Does it matter if he did?"

Damon furled his brow. "Of course it does."

His uncle met the emerald eyes mirrored in his own face. "Why?"

"Because if Joff lied and he did as Lady Arya claimed, then the direwolf didn't need to die. It _shouldn't_ have died."

"Joffrey said the other wolf attacked him. Lady Arya said he invoked it. Honestly, I imagine the she-wolf was telling the truth, but it doesn't matter."

Damon stared at his uncle, shocked. "Of course it matters! If Joffrey had Lady Sansa's wolf killed because it did as any good beast should, then—"

"Then what? Will you go and bring the beast back to life?"

"Well no."

"Will you call Joffrey a liar to his face or for all the court to hear?"

"Of course not."

"Then what will you do, Prince Damon?"

The Golden Prince opened his mouth to answer, the oiling of the sword forgotten, but he found no words to say. His mouth worked three or four times before he grunted. "I don't know."

Jaime nodded, then pointedly looked at the blunted sword until Damon started working again. "Exactly. The past in the past; you can't bring that wolf back to life any more than I can King Aerys, and just like me you shouldn't want to. Joffrey is a prince, and a prince's word will always be considered truth. You should remember that, Damon." His uncle usual smirk returned. "As well as remember what I taught you today, because I expect you to use it tomorrow. I need to keep you sharper with the sword in your hand than the sword in your pants."

Damon slowly nodded, trying to digest what his uncle had just said. "Thank you, Uncle Jaime."

"Damon," came a voice from the door of the Red Keep. Damon twisted to look that direction, and saw his mother in the doorway to the castle. He rose to his feet as he saw several handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting with her, including the Lady Sansa. He was both amused and embarrassed by the red blush to the northern girl's cheeks as she unconsciously eyed his bare chest.

His mother didn't share the amusement. Cersei was watching Damon and Jaime, her eyes shadowed and face carefully blank. His mother the Queen had never been truly comfortable with his attachment to her twin, for reasons Damon wasn't certain of. Perhaps she feared he showed too much favor to those related to him through blood, though that didn't make very much sense to Damon. He supposed it was more likely her desire for him to become close to someone his own age such as Tyrek, a motherly concern that Damon imagined all boys must counter. _Even Princes._

"Yes mother?"

Cersei smiled at him, though her eyes remained shadowed. "Clean yourself up and meet us in the dining hall, sweetling. It is Lady Jocelyn's nameday, and you need not be late. She considers you a friend."

Damon barely withheld his snort of amusement. _Jocelyn Swyft and I have never said more than two words to one another. It's been…other noises._ But Damon wasn't about to disobey, and nodded. "Of course, mother."

Jaime took the sword, gesturing towards Cersei who hadn't moved. "I'll finish this up, Your Grace." He leaned in closely. "And I'll do my best to smuggle 'Lady' Jocelyn into your chambers tonight."

Damon didn't let his face give the last part away, but he gripped his uncle's shoulder in thanks. "Thank you for your time, Ser Jaime."

As he walked towards the group of ladies, pulling his golden and black shirt down over his shoulders, he again absently noted his mother's uncomfortable gaze.


	4. Chapter 4

Damon hated Loras Tyrell.

The Baratheon Prince knew it was simple jealousy that made him dislike the Knight of Flowers as ardently as he did. The Reachman had flair about him, a charm and gravitas that made women swoon and men follow. Already a jousting champion of renown despite being a scant couple of years older than Damon, not to mention well respected with a sword, Loras would make any young man jealous, so Damon didn't feel overly petty in his own envy.

But he certainly hated Loras. The trick with the mare made it even more potent.

"I wish Clegane would have let his brother take the flowery git's head off."

He meant to speak where only his uncle could hear it, but Tyrek nodded his assent from Damon's other side. His cousin had accompanied the Prince as he squired for Ser Jaime, assisting when Damon requested it and otherwise staying out of the way. _So he pretty well stayed out of the way all day. I need no assistance with the few normal chores a Prince is allowed to do._ "Clever bit, the mare."

Damon whirled on his cousin, glaring down at him. Tyrek paled a bit, taking a half step back. "Clever? _Dishonorable._ "

Both of their blonde heads were doused with water when Jaime, sweat stained and in only breeches, withdrew his head from the bucket it'd been submerged in, blonde hair stuck to his forehead and spitting water from his mouth as he spoke. "Clever."

Both of his kin turned to look at him, one in shock and the other in _disbelieving_ shock. "But it disrupted Ser Gregor's stallion. It was no longer a match of skill it was a farce of a fight…it was underhanded!"

Jaime turned to look at him, cocking an eyebrow. "Gregor Clegane is near eight feet tall, strong as a giant and with plate mail as thick as your head of hair. Skill only goes so far, Prince; it was already a farce before they climbed on either of their horses." Jaime pulled a clean shirt over his torso and gestured towards his freshly-polished armor, which both squires rushed to attend to.

"So you support the move? If I can't beat a man in fair combat I should resort to tricks and treachery?"

Jaime's gaze locked on the Prince's, emerald to emerald. "If it was real out there I would've killed Loras Tyrell before he got to the Mountain. But if I hadn't, Tyrell would have to live with talk that he tricked another knight in order to kill him. But Clegane, who did no such trickery until long after Tyrell would have been all over him? Clegane would be dead. Think on that."

"It wasn't clean."

"War isn't, Your Grace. I hope neither of you ever learn that firsthand."

* * *

It was an offhand comment, one Damon paid little attention to at the time. Later, he would wish he had.

_The world went to shit quicker than I could ever have imagined._

"Mother, save the watery words for Myrcella and Tommen. What in the seven hells happened?"

Damon Baratheon knew as well as anyone that it was never wise to demand anything from Cersei Lannister. His mother loved him and his siblings fiercely, but she took little in the way of disobedience. By the tightening of the skin around the Queen's eyes and slight clenching of her jaw he knew he had spoken too harshly, but Damon couldn't focus on apologizing, not while everything in his life was changing much quicker than he could ever have anticipated.

Identical eyes held stares a long moment before the Queen finally gestured towards the seat on the other side of her desk. Damon took it impatiently, as impatiently as he had stormed through the halls of the Red Keep in just breeches, boots and a soaked shirt. He had been training with Ser Barristan the Bold and cousins Tyrek and Lancel, his uncle having firmly insisted the Prince remain behind while Jaime went about some business of the King. That had been this morning, and now, in the darkening of evening, the second son of Robert sat in his mother's chamber, sweating and angry.

The Queen never let things slide, though. Even when giving an inch, she took one back. "Never speak to me like that again, Damon."

The Prince nodded slightly, already regretting the sharpness of his earlier tone. His mother was a good woman who gave everything she could for his happiness; she didn't deserve to be barked at simply because Damon was concerned at the sudden changes. "I apologize, mother. I am only…confused. What happened to Lord Stark?"

His mother watched him a long moment, mouth in the thin line Damon knew meant she was trying to find proper words. He waited, though his impatience flared. The Hand of the King had, according to rumor, been returned to the Red Keep from the streets of King's Landing by Goldcloaks, the Lord of the North unconscious and wounded. Three of Lord Stark's men, including the hand of the Hand Jory Cassel, had been slain, the last by Damon's uncle. Three Lannister men had also died, and Jaime was nowhere to be found.

Damon, much like everyone he had asked, had no clue why.

Cersei finally spoke, voice calm. "Your uncle Tyrion was taken on the road while travelling south."

"Taken?"

"Captured, by Catelyn Stark at her husband's command."

Damon blinked thrice, mind having difficulty wrapping itself around the news. It took him four more blinks before he managed to speak. "For the sake of the Seven _why_?"

His mother's voice remained calm, eyes startlingly blank. "He seems to believe Tyrion tried to have his son Brandon killed."

Damon shot forward. "The boy _fell!"_

"Yes, he fell. But, according to his wife and his heir Robb, an assassin wielding your uncle's blade attempted to kill the child in his sickbed."

Damon stared incredulously, mind racing. _Tyrion has no reason to want the boy dead. Even if he did, Tyrion isn't the kind to kill a child._ Damon may not be close to his dwarf uncle, but he didn't believe for a second that would do such a thing. Or that he'd be stupid enough to arm the assassin with his own knife. "I don't believe it."

"Neither do I, or your uncle Jaime. That is why he confronted Lord Stark outside a brothel. Things unfortunately took a violent turn."

 _Eddard Stark at a brothel?_ That was only one piece of the shock of news Damon was being assaulted with. He supposed there was precedent, Jon Snow being evidence, but Damon had seen the adoration the Lord of the North held for his wife, as well as Stark's emphasis on acting honorably.

But that was a rather unimportant detail. The bigger issue was that uncle Jaime had fought with Lord Stark in the street, leading to the deaths of men from both households. Whatever the foolish and brash move seizing Tyrion had been—and while Damon had had only limited interactions with Lord Stark, foolish and brash seemed out of character—there was no sense in attacking him in the streets. If there was a misunderstanding it needed to be worked out in the courts, not with steel. Those sort of actions were what brought on civil wars.

And, most devastatingly to the Prince of the Iron Throne, Jaime had spoken of none of this to Damon before he carried it out. He had neither taken his nephew to the confrontation, nor had he even given him a warning of what had happened to his own family. Damon was crushed; he thought Jaime told him everything.

Damon had been lost in his own thoughts, eyes unfocused. When he came back to the present, Cersei was watching him, as stony faced as ever. "Where is uncle Jaime now?"

His mother the Queen shifted slightly, and Damon swore for a moment he saw both anger and concern in her eyes. "No one is sure. He has fled King's Landing." That twisted the hurt deeper; Jamie had left him behind.

For the first time in Damon's life, his uncle was gone.

Cersei spoke again after only a moment. "Your grandfather has called his banners in response to Lady Stark's actions. It is likely Jaime is riding to meet with him."

 _Jaime left me to fight a war. I'm his squire, I should be with him._ "What is father going to do?"

This time the anger in the Queen's gaze was unmistakable. "He has ordered Lord Stark to be cared for in his chambers, and intends to wait for him to awaken before learning what has happened. It is a foolish, weak move. He should be arrested for attacking the Queen's brother in the street."

 _It sounds to me like uncle Jaime attacked_ him _. The much more likely cause of arresting Lord Stark would be his order to abduct Tyrion._ Even in his state of shock, Damon knew that particular point was low on his mother's list of priorities. She and Tyrion had never gotten on well. "He is doing nothing?"

"No."

"But civil war is threatening to break out under his nose. Envoys should be sent to both Lord Tywin and Lady Stark, demanding both Tyrion's release and Tywin to stand down. This is all a misunderstanding!"

Cersei cocked a brow at him. "Neither Jaime or Lord Stark see it that way. Neither do I, for that matter."

"But, mother, Tyrion didn't attempt to assassinate Bran. All of this violence has started for nothing."

"The Starks have acted against House Lannister. That has repercussions."

Damon shook his head. "Those repercussions should be doled out by House Baratheon. The law of King Jaehaerys is clear, mother."

"King Jaehaerys was a Targaryen, and has been dead for centuries. You are a Lannister. House Stark has acted against you."

"I am a Baratheon as well, mother. And I am a Prince of the Iron Throne, which is the body that should mediate this dispute." Damon shot to his feet. "I will follow Uncle Jaime. I can convince him to return and settle this matter diplomatically."

Cersei had risen as he did, and her grip was firm on his wrist. "You will do no such thing."

Damon titled his head down to look at her. "I am his squire, my place is by his side. I am also a prince, and my place is to keep my realm from going to war."

"You are a boy." The words cut deep and true. "This matter is for men like your uncle and grandfather to settle." Her eyes tightened alongside her grip. "You will do _nothing_ , Damon. Your place is _here_ , with your sister and your brothers, unless the King tells you otherwise. He hasn't, and won't."

"But mother—"

"But nothing. You will remain here, where you belong."

The Queen's tone was final. Damon wanted to argue, wanted to fight it fiercely. Instead, he turned and left.

And that night, he left King's Landing.


End file.
